Crash Test Love (5 page)

It’s a good question. I liked Ben. He made me laugh. We enjoyed the same movies and listened to (basical y) the same music. He was handsome and I had fun hooking up with him. I think he felt the same way about me. But is that love? Isn’t love something … more?

“Yes,” I say, because it sounds more dramatic than I don’t know or Could you be more speci c? And even if it wasn’t love, it stil hurts that we’re not together, to know he doesn’t want me anymore. I do miss him.

London pats my hand. “It’s a good thing we found you when we did. We’ve been watching you, you know.”

“You have?”

“I don’t know what the girls were like at your last school, or if you had, like, a lot of friends”—London glances at my shoes, and I wonder if she can tel how many friends I had by the kind of shoes I wear—“but at East Shore we’re, like, way important.” can tel how many friends I had by the kind of shoes I wear—“but at East Shore we’re, like, way important.” I’m not sure what the proper response is, so I say, “You guys seem real y sweet.” They laugh. “We’re de nitely not sweet,” says Jessica. “But we take care of each other. We’ve al been through what you’re going through with Ben.”

“Which is exactly why we don’t date high school guys,” London says. “Ever. It’s a rule.” This explains why I haven’t seen anyone of the male persuasion at ached to their (slim) hips. “A rule?”

“It’s like this, Garret : high school guys are boys. They are total y sel sh and immature. They wil break your heart into a mil ion pieces and then pick up al of the pieces and cut you with them. Col ege guys, on the other hand”—London widens her eyes—“are men. You know?” I don’t know. I’ve never dated anyone in col ege, nor do I have the desire to. “Wel , it’s real y cool of you to invite me to have lunch with you.”

“We know,” says London, twisting open a bot le of water. I’m too self-conscious to eat my sandwich in front of these girls; instead, I try convincing myself I’m not hungry. It works, but barely.

“Don’t get used to it,” Jessica says.

Oh.

“That’s not a threat or anything,” London says calmly. “Wel , okay, it is, but it’s not a physical threat.”

“Yeah, we’re not going to, like, break your kneecaps with a basebal bat or anything!” Jyl ian says, laughing a crazy hyena kind of laugh.

“Should I be scared?” I ask.

London raises her eyebrows. “Of us?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Here’s the deal, Garret ,” Jessica says. “We’ve been friends since seventh grade.”

“We used to be friends with another girl named Jennifer,” says Jyl ian, “but … we’re not anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, because I’m uncomfortable.

“Don’t be,” says London, waving her hand dismissively. “She was mad trashy. Anyway, you seem like you’d t in wel with us. Public school can be rough, especial y because we’re going to graduate this year. Hanging out with us would do wonders for your social life, which, we’re guessing, is pret y nonexistent.”

Truthful y, these girls don’t seem like the kind of people I would be friends with if I had my choice. I think about my best friend back in Chicago, Amy, who would literal y have convulsions if she ever saw me with girls who had a group nickname. But Amy isn’t here now. I am. And so far, the J Squad are the only ones who seem remotely interested in having me around.

Now, I’m not total y naïve—I’ve seen enough movies to know that:

High School + Pret y Girls = Bad News

The popular clique never makes for the best friends. That’s just not how it works. But let’s face it: I moved halfway across the country for senior year. What’s the likelihood I’l make any real friends?

“That sounds great,” I say.

London smirks. “Oh, sweetie. It’s not that easy.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t just become one of us right away,” Jyl ian sco s. “I mean, that’s not how friendship works.”

“It’s not?”

“It’s not,” Jessica says knowingly. “You have to earn it. For now, you can be our friend on a trial basis.”

“What that means,” London says, “is that you can hang out with us before, during, and after school, and on the weekends until the end of October.”

“What happens at the end of October?” I ask.

“Destiny Monroe’s Sweet Sixteen,” Jyl ian says. “It’s being lmed for an episode of MTV’s My Super Sweet Sixteen and it’s going to be epic. Like, so lavish.”

“Lavish,” Jyl ian says, “is the opposite of rusty. Just FYI.”

“How do I t in?” I ask.

“You don’t,” London says. “Yet. Do you see that guy?” She points into the courtyard where Henry and his friends are throwing a tennis bal against one of the brick wal s.

“Yeah.”

“His name is Henry Arlington,” Jessica says. “He’s by far the sexiest guy at East Shore—”

“On al of Long Island,” Jyl ian interjects. “And Long Island is, like … long. It looks like a sh.”

“Thanks for that bril iant insight,” London says. “Anyway, Henry is total y edible but a major prick. He thinks he’s bet er than everyone. Even us.

” I’m about to ask if any of them have dated him, but I hold back. “Why are you tel ing me this?”

“If you can get Henry to publicly acknowledge you as his girlfriend and take you, as his date, to Destiny Monroe’s Sweet Sixteen,” London say,

“you can o cial y join the J Squad.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You can’t hang out with us anymore, and we’l make your life at East Shore a living hel . And Garret ? We can do that.” She is so serious it makes me want to laugh. (I don’t, though.) Do they know about Henry and me? Not that anything has ever happened between us. He won’t even look at me.

“Once you’re at the party,” London says, “you have to dump him on camera in front of everyone. It’l prove to us that you’re above dating high school boys and it wil be the ultimate payback.”

“Payback for what?” I ask.

“Payback for what?” I ask.

Jyl ian and Jessica exchange glances. London ignores them and continues: “Henry is a heartbreaker. He’s hurt more girls than you can imagine.

He deserves to know what that feels like for once.”

“No o ense,” I say, “but that’s assuming I could even get him to date me, let alone like me enough so he would actual y be upset when I dump him.”

London appears unfazed. “Right.”

I gulp. What London is proposing is actual y, wel , cruel. And while Henry did blow me o for co ee, he didn’t ruin my life. I don’t know what he’s done to deserve such malice.

“I’m not sure I can do that,” I say. “Henry seems … nice. Nice enough, at least. No o ense.” Jessica fakes gagging. “He’s about as nice as get ing a huge pimple on your forehead right before you’re competing in a Teen Miss Long Island Sound pageant and losing out to a girl from Great Neck with tacky extensions and inappropriate tan lines.” She lets out a tiny burp. “Or whatever.”

“I guess it’s true, then,” Jyl ian says, turning to London.

“I guess,” London agrees.

“What’s true?” I ask.

“We heard that you and Henry hooked up at a party before school started.” London grabs her purse, as if she’s about to leave. “What you don’t know is that he never hooks up with the same girl twice. So if you think you’re gonna be, like, an item or something … I’d seriously reconsider.” I’m stunned. “You heard what?”

“You mean you didn’t hook up with him?” Jyl ian asks.

“Absolutely not,” I tel them, omit ing the fact that I probably would have if he hadn’t left the party so quickly. “Who did you hear that from?” London rests her purse on the table. “Everyone’s talking about it. But I heard it from Duke. And there’s only one person he could have heard it from.”

I don’t want to believe that Henry lied to his friends about us get ing together. “Why would he lie about that?” Jessica puts her arm around me. “Maybe he wants people to think you’re a slut.” I cringe. This happened to me once before, when I was a freshman at my old school. This senior named Mark and I were talking at a house party, and we hit it o . The next day, however, everyone at Mercer thought we’d had sex. Turns out he was a total asshole and spread rumors about me. It took months until people stopped thinking I was easy. To this day, I stil despise him. I can’t believe Henry fal s in the same ranks. He seemed … di erent.

“This is what Henry does,” London says, pushing Jessica out of the way, placing her hand on my shoulder. “He deserves to be punished.” I reconsider the J Squad’s o er. The positives of this arrangement:

Instant popularity

A secure group of friends—at least for the year

Get ing back at Henry for giving me a reputation at East Shore before I had time to establish one myself The negatives:

Spending time with Henry (He lied to people about us hooking up and had the nerve to blow me o earlier!) Spending time with the J Squad (They seem kinda fake and slightly insane.)

Compromising my morals (Do I even have morals?)

I realize that trying to get Henry to be my boyfriend just so I can hang out with the J Squad and eventual y dump him is wrong. It’s “Mean” (John Mel encamp, 2008). But Henry hasn’t exactly been nice to me, and it’s not like I want to actual y date him. I don’t want a boyfriend. I want friends. And isn’t this what these girls are o ering? Friendship? Even if it’s completely arti cial? Does that mean it can’t potential y grow into something … more?

The bel rings; I cannot believe forty- ve minutes have passed so quickly.

“You have the weekend to think about it,” says London. “If you’re not interested, we’l leave you alone. No harm done. If you are interested, wel ”—she slips me a napkin with her phone number writ en on it—“that’s another story. Have a nice day, Garret .” I watch the J Squad leave, and I’m not the only one. The entire cafeteria observes their exit. I close my eyes and picture myself with them. I am surprised at how easily the image comes.

Then I open my eyes and they are gone. Everyone’s at ention is back to his or her respective table. No one is watching me.

At home, my mother is dancing around the kitchen table; freshly brewed co ee and chocolate-covered graham crackers are waiting for me.

“What’s al this for?”

“Oh, just something I cooked up,” she says, swiveling her hips and jingling her bracelets in the air.

“You didn’t cook anything. The co ee is from Dunkin’ Donuts and the graham crackers are from … I don’t know. The supermarket.”

“You’re always so concerned with details, Garret ,” Mom says, continuing to shimmy. “That’s why you can never keep a boyfriend. Wel , that and you’re a total pushover.”

“Mom!”

“It’s true,” she says, kissing my forehead.

“You don’t have to be mean about it,” I say. “And I am not a pushover.”

“If you say so, sweetie.”

My mother, by the way, is the closest thing I have to a best friend besides Amy. We have a very casual relationship despite her being a total kook. “Name one time I was a pushover.”

“Just one? Fine. Andrew Carrington.”

I shoot her a dirty look. Andrew Carrington was my rst high school romance. We dated for six months toward the end of ninth grade (he was a senior), during which he introduced me to many “bad” things that I did simply because he asked me to.

Andrew, on beer: “It’s good for you.”

Andrew, on pot: “It’s good for you.”

Andrew, on pot: “It’s good for you.”

Andrew, on let ing him feel me up: “I think one of your boobs is bigger than the other. I should probably check to make sure.” I told my mom everything we did partly because I felt guilty and partly because I had no one else to tel .

“Low blow. I was fteen.”

“That’s only one example, honey. I love you, but when it comes to boys you sort of lose control.” MADONNA LYRICS RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD WHEN I THINK ABOUT SOME OF MY PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS

“Waiting for your call baby night and day, I’m fed up, I’m tired of waiting on you.”—Hung Up

“Papa don’t preach, I’m in trouble deep.”

—Papa Don’t Preach

“Like a virgin, touched for the very rst time”

—Like a Virgin

I am slightly aggravated only because she’s right. “It’s a good thing I’m done with boys, then.” My mother feigns shock. “Since when?”

“Since today,” I tel her, picturing Henry and then Ben. “I’m through with them. Forever.”

“Forever?”

I think about it. “Wel , until col ege.”

That gets a laugh out of her. “Okay, Garret . Let’s see how long that lasts, hmm?” Upstairs, I take out my guitar and sit on the edge of my bed. I’m no great musician, but I love the feel of my ngers on the strings, the sound of changing chords. If I had a kil er voice or a thousand melodies in my head, I’d want to be a singer-songwriter, like Joni Mitchel or Ani DiFranco or Tift Merrit . I have writ en some lyrics, but they’re more melodramatic than meaningful.

I love al kinds of music, real y. Old-fashioned rock and rol , country, bluegrass, and—of course—Top 40 pop. As long as I can hum along and forget my troubles for a lit le while, I’m good. My favorite songs are love songs. Happy ones for when I’m happy, sad ones for when I’m sad.

Listening to a song where the singer has gone through the same stu I’m going through makes me feel like someone, somewhere, understands me